Chapter VII: An Anonymous Letter

Carl Bjornsën was lying on his bed, a little less dirty and dishevelled, perhaps, than the day before, but still haggard and unshorn, and with a sullen look upon his dying face. The room, moreover, smelt strongly of brandy.

‘Oh!’ cried Paula, as she involuntarily shrunk backward, with a gesture of disgust, ‘you have been drinking. You have broken your promise to me. You will kill yourself before your time.’

‘_Before my time_,’ he answered moodily, ‘as if my time wasn’t close at hand, and a bottle of brandy or two would make much difference to it. And what else did you suppose I should do with your money--the money you dole out to me as if I were a beggar, whilst you drive backwards and forwards to see me in your carriage, or come on horseback: Curse you!’

His bitter words roused her spirit.

‘If this is your gratitude,’ she cried, ‘I will not come again. I have run a great risk in visiting you simply because I thought it was my duty. But there can be no duty owing to a man who knows no better than to bite the hand that feeds him.’

She turned away, and was about to descend the stairs, when she heard the rasping guttural voice call after her.

‘Paula! Paula! Don’t leave me. I am dying here alone.’

Of course she went back to him then. No woman with a heart in her bosom could have done otherwise. But she did not approach the bed. Bjornsën had flung himself, face downwards, on his pillows, in an attitude of despair, but to have touched or caressed him would have seemed like an infidelity on her part to Hal.

‘Oh, Carl,’ she exclaimed, ‘why are you so ungenerous? Is it _my_ fault that my husband is good to me? Am I to suffer all my life because your cruelty spoilt the best part of it?’

‘But I lie here and think of it till it would drive me mad--unless I had the brandy. _You_ to come to _me_ in furs and feathers, and talk of your husband and your carriage--_you_, who were mine--_mine_--and who would be mine to this day, if I had my rights.’

‘Thank God, I am not!’ she cried indignantly. ‘How did you treat me when I was yours--with blows and curses.’

‘It was not I--it was the drink. I loved you, Paula, but you were cold and indifferent, and you despised me, and the thought drove me wild. But I am sorry for it now.’

‘I am glad you are sorry, Carl,’ she answered more gently, ‘because you know that you must soon stand before your Maker, and He will accept your sorrow as a reparation for your sin. And He will forgive you, as I do.’

‘Will you come and stand by me when I die?’ he asked her hoarsely. ‘Will you hold my hand till my soul has left my body? It frightens me to think of going alone.’

‘I will come if I am able,’ she replied; ‘but you must not forget that I live seven miles from here, and I am not my own mistress.’

‘And you were once _my wife_,’ he muttered. ‘God! how strange it seems that you should stand by me with dry eyes and speak to me as you do now.’

‘Does it? Is it not stranger that you should forget the terrible gulf you opened between us with your own hand, and that you should have sent the unhappy girl you promised to cherish home to her mother, bruised and bleeding, and with an idiot child to keep as a remembrance of you? Carl, this is a solemn time for both of us, but I cannot forget (even in the midst of it) that you were no husband to me, but only an inhuman taskmaster.’

‘That’s right, kick a man when he’s down. It’s the way of women,’ replied Carl Bjornsën fiercely.

‘I hope not. I know that _I_ feel nothing but a kindly wish to alleviate your sufferings now. But try not to think of me or the past. Speak only of yourself. Is there anything more that I can do for you?’

‘Not to-day. I’ve got my brandy, thanks to the old woman, and that’s better than wife or child to me.’

‘Paulie is better, you will be glad to hear that, and I have placed him with a kind woman, who will nurse him back to health.’

‘All right. I sha’n’t live to see it. He is under your care now, and you are responsible for him.’

‘Do the people here attend properly to you, Carl? Have you all you require?’

‘Yes; all I want is to be left alone, if you have no better consolation to give me than that.’

‘Then I will go,’ returned Paula; ‘but don’t let us part unkindly, Carl. There has been enough of that between us already.’

‘And now that you have a fine house and a good income, and everything you require, and are well out of my clutches, you can afford to be generous. That’s about the long and the short of it, eh?’

Paula bit her lips to prevent an angry reply.

‘I mean that I should like my last thoughts of you to be happier than they were at first. For all that has happened between us, Carl, I forgive you freely. Say that you forgive me, if anything in my conduct led to it.’

‘You can believe anything you choose, and comfort yourself with any humbug you like. If the real truth were known, you hate me, and will be very glad when the earth rattles over my bones. But you dole out your money as a salve for your conscience when I’m gone, and you can’t deny it.’

‘I _do_ deny it,’ replied Paula. ‘I have done what I could for you, because I pity you, and I think it is my duty, for the sake of what you once were to me. But my conscience requires no salve, and if you choose to regard my kindness in so pernicious a light, I cannot help it. Good-bye, and may God forgive you.’

She turned, even as she spoke, and went down the stairs without casting another glance behind her.

As soon as she reached the little inn, she mounted her horse and rode quickly homeward. She was frightened at what had taken place, and at what might follow it. Since Carl Bjornsën had once more hold of the brandy bottle, there was no saying what disclosures he might choose to make. As Paula thought of it her heart beat like a sledge-hammer, and she wished she had never been so foolish as to seek out the man. Yet poor little Paulie! No, no! It must have been God’s hand that had led her to the rescue of her unfortunate child, who would have been sent to the workhouse without her assistance. Yet she was feeling very miserable and very perplexed about it all when a circumstance happened that threw her into a state of the greatest perturbation. As she rode past a lane that led to a neighbouring village, her husband turned quietly out of it, and stood in the road regarding her as if she had fallen from the skies.

‘_Paula_,’ he exclaimed in a voice of astonishment ‘where on earth do you come from? I thought you promised me to ride straight home.’

‘_Promise._ Did I promise?’ she replied, in the utmost confusion. ‘Oh, I think not, Hal. If I had promised, I should have done as you say--’

‘But why didn’t you go home? You know my objection to your riding without a groom.’

‘Well, to tell you the truth, I felt as if I should enjoy a longer ride, and so I cantered a little way up the highroad. It is quite safe here, you know.’

‘You must have had a pretty good long canter,’ observed her husband gravely. ‘It is two hours since we parted.’

‘Is it really? But what brings you back so soon?’ she said, trying to speak lightly.

‘My horse cast a shoe near Balcombe, so I am taking him gently home. But I little thought I should meet you.’

‘My dear Hal, don’t talk as if I had committed a crime.’

‘I am vexed at it, I tell you frankly. Where did you leave Mr Foker?’

‘Little Foker? I’m sure I don’t know. The mare started when you threw off, and carried me over the first field. And by the time I returned he had gone--at least I never saw him again.’

‘He must have thought you rather discourteous. I wish you had told me you were going to ride further.’

‘My dear boy, how could I tell you if I were not sure of it myself? May one never have a sudden fancy? The day is fine, and I felt equal to it. So I thought I would take advantage of both circumstances. Is there anything so wonderful in that?’

‘Perhaps not. But I wish I had known it beforehand,’ he repeated obstinately.

And then they rode home together in silence, both occupied with their own thoughts. As they stood in the hall together, and Hal was placing her riding-whip and his crop in the rack, he observed quickly,--

‘I wish you’d be _quite_ open with me, Paula.’

She imagined he knew everything then, and started violently. Even in the darkened hall he could see the vivid colour rush into her face.

‘What do you mean?’ she cried. ‘How am I _not_ open with you?’

‘I don’t mean to accuse you of regular deception, only I think, when we were discussing the advisability of your riding back from Bostock without a groom, that you must have had _some_ idea of extending your morning’s exercise. And I would rather you had told me, even if I disapproved of it. I should like to think you were always quite frank with me, dear.’

She was about to frame some quick reply when a glance at his handsome honest face disarmed her. She _had_ deceived him (though Heaven knew how unwillingly), and he had every right to be angry with and reproach her. A sudden sense of guilt smote her conscience, and she threw her arms round his neck and burst into tears. But that was a penitence far beyond what Hal wished to see or had attempted to provoke.

‘Why, my darling!’ he exclaimed affectionately. ‘Is this the effect of my words? What a brute I must be. I only wished to caution you, my sweetheart. I am so anxious about you whenever you are out of my sight. It is only my love that made me speak, Paula. Oh, don’t cry like that or I shall wish I had never mentioned it.’

‘No, no, Hal. You are right, and I am wrong. And I _will_ be open with you--I will, I will.’

A convulsive sob rose in her throat, and choked her further utterance. Her husband bent over her and kissed her fondly.

‘Now, Mrs Rushton,’ he said gaily, ‘I won’t have any more of this. The servants will think I have been beating you. Luncheon is ready, and so am I, so come along and give it me at once.’

He drew her into the dining-room, and began to talk of other things, and Paula was only too glad to change the subject and let it drop into the great gulf of forgetfulness. But as they rose from table it was renewed.

‘Lend me some money, love,’ said Hal carelessly. ‘Parrish is waiting below to have his bill settled, and I have parted with all my cash.’

‘How much do you want?’ asked Paula, all in a flutter.

‘Let me see,’ replied her husband, as he drew a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket and examined it, ‘three pounds seventeen and six. I’ll give it you back to-morrow.’

Paula trembled. She knew she had not so much money left in her purse.

‘Must you pay Parrish to-day?’ she said.

Hal shrugged his shoulders.

‘_Must_,’ he echoed; ‘there’s no must in the matter, only the man is poor, and this is the second time he’s called for the settlement of his account. Why can’t you let me have it?’

‘Because--because,’ she stammered, ‘I’m afraid I haven’t as much money left, Hal.’

‘Nonsense, my dear. You forget. I gave you ten pounds last Monday.’

‘I know you did. But--but--I have spent it.’

Hal laughed. He thought she was joking.

‘_How_ could you have spent ten pounds in a week, Paula? What have you spent it on?’

‘I--I--can’t remember, at least not in a minute. I suppose I’ve frittered it away on little things. I’m very sorry, but it is almost all gone, Hal.’

‘How much have you left?’ he asked gravely.

Paula opened her purse, and with a shaking hand counted out twenty-two shillings.

‘Whew!’ whistled Hal, ‘that is of no use. Well, I don’t want to find fault with you, my girl, but I _do_ think eight pounds eighteen shillings rather a large sum to throw away in five days, and particularly when you can’t remember what you spent it on.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve been extravagant,’ faltered Paula, with a burning face. ‘But--but--’

‘Well, never mind, dear, for this once,’ said Hal kindly (for his was a most generous nature), ‘but don’t forget that our income _has_ a limit. I will pay Parrish with a cheque instead, which is against my rule, as the country people look with great suspicion on a piece of paper as an equivalent for goods received.’

He went laughing from the room, but left Paula miserable, and wondering why he should have asked such a favour of her on the very day when she had been unable to grant it. Almost all her ten pounds, she knew, had gone in the cause of Carl Bjornsën and little Paulie, and yet she had stood like a culprit before her husband, and feared to confess it. How she longed to tell him everything. How she hated the secret that lay between them, as she dragged her weary limbs up to her room and threw herself on the bed in an abandonment of despair.

Meanwhile Hal Rushton dismissed his creditor and walked forth into his grounds, whistling softly to himself. He had not given a second thought to Paula’s little bit of extravagance. It had surprised him because it was so unlike her, but he never interfered with the expenditure of her money, and he was a light-hearted young fellow who threw off care as a duck does water. He met his baby and her nurse in the drive, and taking little Edith in his own arms, carried her round the stables, and drew her chubby hand over the horses’ sleek coats--for he was determined she should grow up to love all dumb animals as he did, and often talked of the day when she should ride round the farm with him on a little pony--and then he superintended the grooms’ work, and walked down to the milking-shed, and took a look at the new plantation at the end of the drive, and visited the poultry woman to order the number of fowls that were to be slaughtered for market. After which, followed by half-a-dozen dogs, he strolled down to the village smithy to give directions about the shoeing of his hunter, and by the time he had finished talking to various friends whom he met on his way, and turned his footsteps again towards Highbridge Hall, it was past five o’clock, and the winter’s dusk was falling.

He was walking steadily along the road, whilst his dogs were burrowing in the banks after imaginary rats or starting the birds in the adjacent fields, when the village postman came tramping behind him.

‘Any letters for me, Jones?’ asked Hal cheerily, as the man reached his side.

‘Yes, sir; and it’s the last in the bag. I was going up to the Hall with it now.’

‘Give it to me, and I’ll save you the trouble of going further,’ replied Hal.

‘Thank ye, sir,’ replied the postman, as he handed him the letter and turned back again.

Hal Rushton took the envelope in his hand and examined the address mechanically. As has been said before, his correspondence was seldom an interesting one, and he did not recognise the handwriting, which looked like that of a tradesman. It was nine chances to one that he did not put it in his pocket unopened but the one chance predominated, and he broke the seal, and taking out the enclosure, he read it in the waning light. As his eye fell on the words which it contained his brow became ominously dark, and his unused hand clenched at his side.

‘Liars! cowards!’ he exclaimed aloud, as he finished the epistle. ‘By God, if I ever catch them, I will make them pay for this wicked slander.’

He fixed his eyes again upon the letter, and read it over two or three times in succession. It ran somewhat after this fashion:--

‘SIR,--The Ladies of Haltham would like to know who the gentleman
at No. 15 Barefoot Lane, to whom Mrs R. is so attentive, may be.
They presume he is a relative, as ladies don’t lavish their money or
their presents, in an usual way, on strangers. Nor yet visit them in
their bedrooms. Perhaps he is _an old acquaintance_. Haltham is proud
to have had the honour of Mrs R.’s company three days running, but
would like to know the reason, and so I daresay would you.--From
those who wish you well out of it,

THE LADIES OF HALTHAM.’

Hal Rushton was not a man to pay any attention (in an ordinary way) to an anonymous letter. If it had not tallied so much with his own observation, he would have torn it in pieces, and scattered it to the four winds of Heaven, and never given it another thought. But he was in love with his wife, and he had considered her behaviour during the last three days very strange, to say the least of it. Her unusual demeanour when she returned from Haltham on Wednesday with the story (a fabrication, perhaps) of having run over some tipsy vagrant, and fainted from the fright; her decided refusal to ride with him on Thursday, on the plea of preferring a walk, and then slinking off to Haltham again in the pony chaise to buy rusks, which the stable boy might have fetched for her at any time. And then her restlessness at night--Hal clenched his teeth when he thought of it--and her murmuring a man’s name, ‘Carl,’ in her sleep. He knew that ‘Carl’ had been her first husband’s name, but the brute was dead, and she had both feared and hated him. She would never breath _his_ name without an execration. But Carl was a very common appellation. There were hundreds of Carls knocking about England, worse luck. _Which_ of them all had the wife of his bosom been thinking of when she murmured that name? Then the occurrence of the morning--Paula’s decided disregard of his wishes, and her confusion on being asked the reason--the condition of her horse, lathered with foam, which proved how hard he had been ridden--and, Heavens! the money he had asked her for and she had been unable to produce--what had she done with it? And why did every detail of her behaviour coincide with this cruel and slanderous letter? Although the afternoon was chilly, the sweat stood on Hal Rushton’s brow as he remembered these things, and his inability to account for them. He was very jealous of his wife’s affection, and he had a right to be, for ever since their marriage his heart had been as open to her as the day, and he had never done a single thing which he would have been ashamed for her to know. But though he despised and condemned the writer of the letter which was giving him so much pain, he could not help acknowledging that Paula’s actions tallied with its insinuations. But who could the man be, and was it possible she had visited anyone without his knowledge? If she had done so, he argued it must have been for the sole purpose of charity, which, like most of her good deeds, his White Rose did in secret.

But why not confide in him, then--his common sense argued for him--why so much blushing and confusion and reticence--such unusual petulance as Paula had exhibited the last few days--such prevarication and uncalled-for emotion? Something was at the bottom of it, Hal felt sure of that--not the contents of this wretched letter, which he crumpled up and thrust into the deepest recesses of his pocket, but something of which he had not been told, and which had unfortunately led to it. His first idea was to go straight home to his wife and show her the anonymous letter, and ask her for an explanation. And yet an inward feeling held him back. Would it not seem like an insult to her purity even to seek the refutation of such a scandalous falsehood? Would Paula ever forgive him for doubting her? Would it not be better to wait patiently until she came of her own accord and laid the explanation in his hands? But his mind did not confine its reasoning to the event of the moment. It wandered back over the past, and reviewed every circumstance that had militated against his wife’s popularity in Deepdale. That first _escapade_ in the schoolhouse. Of course she had explained it all satisfactorily to himself, and though he had never seen Seth Brunt, he had accepted her version of the story, and believed that the man who had been killed in the railway accident was the same who had visited her in the schoolhouse. But he had no proof of it, and now this wretched letter, with evident allusion to the same circumstance, hinted that Paula’s _protégé_ at Haltham was ‘an old acquaintance.’ Was it possible that everybody knew more of the matter than he did, and that the evident dislike which the Deepdale matrons had conceived for his wife arose purely from their disbelief in her integrity? Could _that_ be the reason that Lady Bristowe had discontinued to visit them, and that Mrs Measures seemed so uncomfortable and confused when he mentioned the subject to her? He would wrest the truth out of Mary Measures, though (Hal thought to himself fiercely), if he died for it. People should not say things about Paula behind his back that they were afraid to say to his face. Yes, that was his last determination. He would repeat nothing of what he had heard to Paula. He would bear the pain of it as best he could by himself. But he would take the first opportunity to consult Mrs Measures in a roundabout way. And meanwhile he would prevent his wife from going into Haltham again, and see how she took it. If she were passive in the matter, she could have no strong motive for going there. And if she had, she would betray it in her face. But yet he did not--_could_ not doubt her. Hal shed a few tears as he strolled up and down in the quickly gathering darkness, and then, ashamed of his weakness, dashed them away, with an oath, and began to make long strides towards home. But when he reached the Hall he entered the gun-room, where he usually transacted his farming business, and locking the door behind him, ordered Louisa to tell her mistress that he was engaged, and did not wish to be disturbed. And then he sat down, and laid his head upon the polished desk, and remained in the same position all the evening, trying to decide what he should do. When supper was announced, he rose and stumbled into the dining-room, with ruffled hair, and eyes reddened by thought and anxiety.

Paula feared at first he had been drinking, his appearance was so unusual and his answers so curt and roughly spoken. And when she rose, and tenderly inquiring if he were well, placed a hand upon his shoulder, he jerked it off (not quite unkindly, but as though the touch oppressed him), and pleading a headache, walked out again into the night air, leaving her mournfully surprised at his behaviour, and with a heart palpitating to learn the cause. Her visit to Carl that morning had not left her very anxious to see him again, but she felt that she must know each day how he was going on, or the end might come without her knowledge. In fact, the unhappy girl did not know _what_ to do. She dared not confide in her husband--she dared not confide in the doctor--and the vision that haunted her was that of Carl dying alone, and being thrust into a pauper’s coffin and huddled into a pauper’s grave. It was too terrible. He was a bad and reckless man, who deserved neither pity nor compassion, but he was the father of her child, and with some women that very natural fact goes an unnaturally long way. Her tender, romantic temperament, even in the midst of a domestic happiness which she would have died sooner than resign, could not help compassionating the luckless creature who had thrown all his worldly chances away. And though she shrunk from his touch, and despised his weakness, she was restless away from him, and could settle down to nothing in Deepdale, whilst she did not know what was going on at number fifteen Barefoot Lane. She quite anticipated that, after her apparent rebellion of that morning, Hal would offer to be her escort on the following day, and she had arranged a most ingenious plan by which he was to leave her at a certain linendraper’s shop to choose long-cloths and flannels for her clothing society, whilst he transacted whatever business he might have in Haltham. She could easily persuade him that her task would take an hour--there was so much to do and select--and that would give her ample time to run round during his absence both to Mrs Wilfred’s and Barefoot Lane. She wanted to take some toys to little Paulie, to call up a smile in that wan, vacant face, and to feel she had done something to make the poor little fellow happy. But when the morrow, which was a Saturday, came, she found her husband proof against all her entreaties that he would take her for a drive.

‘Hal dear,’ she commenced at breakfast, ‘what are your plans for to-day?’

‘I have made none,’ he answered, almost sullenly.

‘Then shall we ride or drive?’

‘Neither.’

‘What do you mean, dear?’

‘I mean that the horses have been overworked lately, and I intend to give them a rest.’

‘_Overworked_, Hal?’ she repeated incredulously.

‘Yes. They’ve had too much going in and out of Haltham to my mind, and a day’s stable will do them good. Horses are not made of cast-iron, as women seem to think. And you’ll be all the better for a rest too, I daresay.’

Paula did not know what to make of his manner, but she coloured as she answered gently,--

‘That is just why I hoped you would drive me into Haltham, dear. I thought I would choose the materials for my clothing society at Millar’s.’

‘Not to-day. You must put it off for a while.’

‘But to-morrow will be Sunday,’ she argued.

‘Yes. And Monday is a hunting day, when I shall require a couple of horses for myself, and have promised to lend the mare to the vicar’s nephew. So, you see, the clothing society will have to wait.’

‘I _do_ see. And that the convenience of the vicar’s nephew and yourself come before mine.’

‘Well, d--n it all, you’ve been into Haltham every day this week!’ exclaimed Hal, with a sudden burst of passion that was very unlike him to exhibit.

Paula rose quietly, and left the room without another word. It was the first time such a scene had taken place between her husband and herself, and she was quite unable to account for the cause. She knew nothing of the anonymous letter, that still lay crumpled up in the pocket of Hal’s shooting jacket. If she had, she would have gone down on her knees and confessed everything to him. All that day she was terribly restless, and Hal watched her actions keenly. She felt as if she could not stay in the house, but wandered about the grounds, as she deliberated what (in the event of her husband continuing his prohibition) she could possibly do. Her feud with the Deepdale ladies rebutted hardly here, for there was not one whom she could ask in a friendly way to give her a lift into Haltham. Mrs Measures, it is true, possessed a pony carriage, but her steed, alas, was not much better than ‘Tubby,’ and was seldom called upon to do more than a couple of miles, as he dragged the vicar’s wife round the village on her parochial duties, and stood contentedly before each door whilst she talked with her humble friends within. And, beside Mary, there was no one from whom Paula could humble herself to ask a favour, neither was there such a thing as a fly or a vehicle of any sort to be hired in Deepdale. She thought of her drives in Lady Bristowe’s chariot with a sigh--even Mr Gribble’s ‘phee-aton’ would have been an acceptable conveyance to her now. But she tried to console herself with the hope that all would go well in Haltham till the following week, and that Hal’s extraordinary whim about the horses would evaporate before she had any need to use them.